


infinity plus one

by revolutionnaire



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Lowercase, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-07
Updated: 2007-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:09:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionnaire/pseuds/revolutionnaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>silly disjointed vignettes written under the influence of mathematics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	infinity plus one

1.

he finds himself thinking of paris.  
  
paris, he knows, is his city. it is the city of love and the city of lights, but more importantly - far more importantly - it is the city where the world first sat up and finally took notice of him, the city where he and marat safin had first touched, under the blinding stadium lights and in front of the world who now knew who tomas berdych was.  
  
it is the city where tomas knew (and he had never been more sure of anything else in his life) that he had to win.  
  
paris is his city.

  
  
  
2.

tomas paints marat's name onto his plate with pesto and a clean butter knife.  
  
his hand keeps shaking and he writes the  _a_  too close to the  _t_ , but he manages. when he finishes, he smiles - a quick flash of white teeth and an uncomfortable twitch in his cheeks - and shows it to marat.  
  
marat looks down to see his name spelt out in vividly green sauce on white porcelain.  
  
"my name is not mart," he says, and tomas giggles.

  
  
  
3.

they love each other silently and easily. they balance each other out, their relationship is simple and uncomplicated, most of the time.  
  
when marat is sad, tomas says nothing. when he is happy, tomas is happy.  
  
when tomas is sad, marat reads him stories.  
  
this time it is the story of a nightingale in love with a young man who is in love with a girl who will dance with him only if he brings her red roses. and so, the nightingale embarks on a journey to find red roses for her love so that he can give them to his.  
  
(tomas loves the story because he loves birds.)  
  
"yet love is better than life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?" marat reads, as tomas gazes up at him with tired eyes.  
  
seven minutes later, the story comes to an end. the girl does not fall in love with the boy and the nightingale dies in vain.  
  
"it makes you sad?" marat asks, but it is not a question and he closes the book. he brushes tomas' hair away from his forehead, kisses his temple gently.  
  


 

  
3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510

he likes to imagine his relationship with marat to be like the value of pi.   
  
"the decimal expansion of pi never ends," he remembers his high school mathematics teacher telling him. "and neither does it trail off in a fixed, recurring pattern."  
  
not like the other rational numbers which either terminate after a string of decimals or repeat forever in a patern of digits, but like the infinite random sequence of digits that form the numerical value of pi.  
  
  


  
4.

there are many things tomas doesn't tell marat.  
  
he doesn't tell marat how he watches him as he sleeps, frozen in place, heart racing terrified, not moving until he sees marat's chest finally move with the breaths he takes. he's heard of people dying in their sleep for no apparent reason, leaving their lovers to wake up next to a stone cold corpse the following morning. he is scared to death that one day it may happen to marat, all the stress travelling up to his brain and finally exploding.  
  
he cannot tell marat because he is afraid. he is afraid marat will laugh at him, he is afraid marat will leave him, he is afraid it may all come true.

  
  
  
5.

the year 2006, for tomas, is like a vignetted photo.  
  
the edges, the corners of it are darkened and blurred, blending into the center of the picture, the same way their days and nights bled into each other, until days became weeks and weeks became months and months became a haze of unmade beds and unbrushed teeth. and at the center of it all--   
  
marat, of course.  
  
they say 2006 was a bad year for tomas berdych, that he lost focus and maybe he was wasted talent. but tomas knows they only judge him from what they see on the tennis court. they think they know, but how can they know when they measure greatness in the execution of a forehand, or achievement in the precision of a dropshot.  
  
they do not know that tennis does not hold you at night, tennis does not make you laugh, tennis does not keep you company, tennis does not read you stories when you are sad, tennis will never love you back.  
  
for tomas, focus was not so much lost as it was shifted.  
  
  


  
6.

he speaks in a mindless monotone, droning on and on and on, eyes staring straight ahead focusing on nothing in particular, and hands occassionally fluttering to illustrate a point that nobody is interested in hearing or understanding.  
  
except tomas. tomas listens with an earnesty that is almost ridiculous considering he does not catch half the words that leave marat's mouth. but he listens anyway, leaning forward and squinting, liking the endless drone of marat's voice as it spills from the television speakers and he can imagine the sound of it flow through his ears, into his brain, massaging and working out all the kinks.  
  
  


  
7.

"they say i become like you, more and more," tomas says from where he is perched on the toilet bowl.  
  
marat spits into the sink and watches the jet of water from the tap pulverise a glob of white minty foam.  
  
"you think so i am like you?" tomas tries to sound serious, but through his reflection in the mirror, marat can see a kind of delight in the way a smile plays around his lips and the corners of his eyes crinkle.  
  
by the time the water spirals down the sink in a sort of mini whirlpool, tomas is there standing next to him, shoulder to shoulder, pressing sticky skin against sticky skin and baring his teeth at the mirror.  
  
"why do they say so?"  
  
tomas squeezes a line of toothpaste onto his toothbrush. "i don't know," he says, and begins to brush his teeth. "because maybe i am tall like you, i become very fast angry, my shots i hit very hard, and also in madrid, i do that-" he holds his toothbrush in his left hand and holds his right index finger up to his lips, makes a shushing sound. "-that thing."  
  
"how does that thing make you more like me?" marat scoffs, rinsing his toothbrush under running water.  
  
there's an undignified squeal almost as tomas spits hurriedly into the sink and turns to gape indignantly and unbelievingly at marat. "you are doing things like that! that time when you pull your pants down!"  
  
"but that-- they liked." he smirks and saunters off. he can turn this bad, he knows as he pulls on his shirt, discarded on the floor from the night before. he can hold tomas by the shoulders, look him in the eye and tell him it is not good to be like him, it is nothing to be proud of to be marat safin. but he will not, because they are in paris, and it is morning, and they are happy.  
  
one minute later, tomas turns off the tap and follows marat into the bedroom, leaving his own mini whirlpool in the sink.  
  
  
  


8.

it hurts more when it is cold. the cold seems to seep through his skin, freezing the synovial fluid between the joints of his surgically-mended knee and sending stabs of pain shooting up through his thigh.  
  
with eyes still closed, he grits his teeth and kneads cold skin with his hand, tries to generate some heat to alleviate the ache. and then there is a rustling of sheets beside him, and he feels tomas warm against his legs and arms wrapped around his knee.  
  
"i help keep warm," tomas mumbles in a voice smothered with sleep.  
  
tomas' hair tickles his feet, but marat can feel the warmth melt the pain away and he closes his eyes.  
  
  


  
9.

 _november 6th, 2005._  
  
tomas wins in paris, and it all begins.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
∞.

"you are sad today," tomas says, tracing patterns sadly onto the lacquered surface of the coffee table. he does not look up.  
  
"i lost today." marat cannot keep the bitter edge out of his voice.  
  
"i too," is the soft reply. "but you are more sad than me."  
  
marat grunts and sits down heavily on the couch. slowly, hesitantly, tomas edges closer to him, and puts his head on marat's shoulder.  
  
silence for a while, and then marat asks, "are you sad?"  
  
"little bit."  
  
marat gets up and disappears into the bedroom. tomas begins to worry, but soon he returns with an old worn out book in his hand. he sits back down on the couch, arranges himself so tomas can settle back against him comfortably, and starts to read.  
  
it is the same story again, the one about the nightingale and the rose.  
  
"'what a silly thing love is,' said the student as he walked away," marat pauses, and sneaks a glance at tomas. he hopes, irrationally, that the story will not make tomas sadder than he is because this part always made tomas a little sad. he continues. "'it is not half as useful as logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true.'"  
  
tomas hides his face in marat's shirt.  
  
  
  
∞ + 1.

tomas runs down the stairs and it sounds like a herd of overweight elephants thundering down a hill.  
  
"is wrong!" he announces triumphantly, only slightly out of breath, to marat who is sitting at the kitchen counter, nursing a steaming cup of tea and a massive headache.  
  
"what?" marat snaps, screwing his eyes shut and digging his fingers into his temples, but it does not deter tomas.  
  
"what you say, in that story. is wrong," he is beaming now, looking as if he has conquered the world. he shakes his head and his hair falls into his eyes. "is wrong. love is not silly thing."


End file.
